Project Home
by Slayerbelle
Summary: Connor's new sister talks about his new life. (UPDATE: Modified the title, just in case it actually becomes a series.)


Contains spoilers for the Angel episode "Home". The Mutant Enemy characters do not belong to me.  
  
Project Home: Delia  
  
by Slayerbelle  
  
I've actually grown to like the kid.  
  
Never thought I'd say that, especially after the special project boot camp they sent me to. Now that was hell, and as a Wolfram and Hart employee I know the proper usage of the word.   
  
Tonight, however, I am happy because tomorrow I am getting the fancy limo treatment back to LA. I will be getting a well-deserved (if I may say so myself) vacation, as soon as I finish all the damn paperwork for Project Home.  
  
The kid knocks on my door.   
  
"I'm not missing you yet, Girly Man," I yell automatically. The social interaction was easy -- it was treating him like an older brother that I had the most trouble remembering.  
  
My bedroom door opens to reveal the kid sporting a new haircut. Not at all the too-smooth long wisps from this morning. I smile, not faking the glee, but faking a sob. "You've become a real boy! What turned my brother into a real boy?"  
  
He smiled, and something beamed out from his eyes, mouth, and visible teeth. Obnoxious teenager, or evil hellspawn? Is there a difference?  
  
"That's real man, little Delia, and Tracy turned me into that."  
  
"Ew, spare me the details, please." So he had done the deed with Tracy. Was that part of the plan? I'm not privy to every aspect of the project.  
  
I have to smile with genuine warmth, though, at him calling me little Delia. He doesn't know that in truth I am two years older than he, that I only look like a high school student, that my name isn't Delia, and that we only actually met three months ago.  
  
It's amazing how easily people accept what they perceive as true, and how rarely they question it.   
  
Memories are not to be trusted.  
  
"Why are you really here?" I ask, going back to typing on my laptop.  
  
He sits on the corner of my bed, somewhat ponderous. When he gets that look, I usually make sure he gets his next shot of the relaxant. He's not allowed to ponder too much.  
  
"You're going to have to take over Lisa's ballet carpool."  
  
"Oh. Right. Tuesdays?" My laptop screen and desk were obscuring his view of most of my body. I reached into my desk drawer for a relaxant dispenser and discreetly shot an entire dose into the half-eaten pastry on my desk. "Bagel?"  
  
He gobbled it whole without so much as a breath, because he was a boy that way. Made my job buckets easier.  
  
Wolfram and Hart's special formulation for the subject of Project Home is best absorbed internally. There's a dispenser that shoots the vapor through his skin, but I've never had to use it.  
  
Implanting memories, you see, is a whole lot easier on normal folk. A spell, a potion, a pill, and the dose lasts forever. On superstrong children of vampires, the strongest dose off the W&H pipeline was able to last three weeks, maybe four.  
  
When it wears off, he starts to dream. Of vampires and crossbows, hunting beasts and killing his daughter.  
  
He tells me these dreams (because he remembers that he always told me such things) and afterwards we drink hot chocolate. He is unable to distinguish the effects of the relaxant from the ordinary sugar rush, and I am unable to tell him that he is not dreaming, but remembering.  
  
The doped-up chocolate does something else too. It makes his body forget. There are many things his hands can do (like break my arm in two seconds, with his eyes closed) that they shouldn't remember.  
  
"And normally if Jane can't take them I'm the backup," he said.  
  
"Lucky going-to-college person," I muttered. "What time are you off tomorrow?"  
  
"Seven. Mom's still crying."  
  
Mom. She really does love her boy.  
  
You have to understand the logic behind the machinery here. This is a real family, the warm and loving Stevens family from an undisclosed, yet picturesque, town in upstate California. They are bubbly, pretty, functional, and they've always wanted a son.  
  
And Wolfram and Hart has given them what they want. We are a regular modern Santy Claus. As part of the package they got obedient, smart and willing-to-drive-carpool daughter Delia. Not too bad a deal.  
  
And they do love us. I don't know if it will ever be more than a memory spell, but I do feel it. This kind of unconditional love, one that I can control with a shot of vapor, is amazing.  
  
"She is really going to miss you," I say.  
  
"I'll be back Thanksgiving. You're not getting rid of me that easily."  
  
"Oh, I'm pretty sure getting rid of you will take the collective effort of several corporations."  
  
Oh. Bad Delia. You shouldn't give him clues like that.  
  
"Haha." And then he sighed, now wistful.   
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm really glad to be doing this."  
  
"You know what they say about college. Party on."  
  
But that wasn't what he meant. He was smiling, without the dripping evil. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, then started again. "I don't know. I'm just really happy to be doing this."  
  
"You're getting existential on me."  
  
"It's my last night here. You'll get your rest in less than 12 hours."  
  
Ain't that the truth.  
  
I cleared my throat. "I know what you mean. I'm happy too."  
  
"And that's fine, right? To be happy? I'm not violating any natural laws here?"  
  
"Hey, sometimes that's all parents want that for their kids. It shouldn't be so bad."  
  
"Great then." He stood up, bolstered by some sense of purpose. "Good night, Delia."  
  
"Good night, Liam."  
  
I'm tired. I have a lot of paperwork ahead of me.  
  
- THE END - 


End file.
